


Take a Seat

by CuttlefishKitch



Series: TMA Disability Fics [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Disability, Disabled!Gerard Keay, EDS Gerry, EDS!Gerard Keay, EDs, Ehlers Danlos Syndrome, Gen, POTS Gerry, POTS!Gerard Keay, Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, dislocation, he takes a shower, it's about gerry taking a shower, minor injury, non-sexual nudity, pots - Freeform, written by a disabled author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:02:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23288968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuttlefishKitch/pseuds/CuttlefishKitch
Summary: Gerard finds something unexpected in the shower.
Relationships: Gerard Keay & Gertrude Robinson
Series: TMA Disability Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693270
Comments: 19
Kudos: 129





	Take a Seat

“Hey Gerty,” Gerard asks, sticking his head out the door to the tiny motel bathroom, “Why’s there a stool in the shower?” Gertrude sets her book aside, the butcher-paper dust jacket crinkling as she does.

“To sit on of course,” she answers simply, shifting her reading glasses down her nose so she can properly look at her traveling companion, “What else would it be for?” Gerard fixes her with a stare halfway between irritation and curiosity, the heavy, smudged, and partially wiped away eye-liner making it far more intense than it would be otherwise. Gertrude of course just blinks impassively under his scrutiny, her long grey hair wrapped in a towel from her own shower.

“Okay,” Gerard replies, the exasperated sigh more implied than uttered, “But why’s it in the shower? You don’t sit in the shower.”

“I do,” Gertrude informs him, “It gets tiring to stand against the stream and wash up all at the same time, and I'm not as young as I once was.”

“Fair I guess, but what should I do with it?” Gerard asks, a little bit of irritation still evident at having his shower delayed like this. “Just pitch it by the wall or something?”

“Well you _could_ use it as well,” Gertrude tells him, something challenging starting to creep in under her matter-of-fact tone, “It’s clean enough what with being in the shower, and I was sure to give it a rinse before leaving it there.”

“Why would I-” Gerard’s cut off by the look Gertrude gives him over her half-moon spectacles. He isn’t really sure how a glance can be rhetorical, exasperated, and shaming all at once. The indignant question lodges in his throat as her expression reminds him, not of his mother, but of something parallel to his mother. Maybe what she would have been had she been anything other than a fear-obsessed tyrant. The comparison makes his stomach turn ever so slightly, and he’d already been standing upright too long to think on it much deeper, the vertigo and fuzz already starting to creep in at the edges of his brain.

“Yeah, alright, sure, whatever,” he mutters, retreating into the bathroom and trying to pretend he doesn’t see her roll her eyes at him as she retrieves her book. 

Gerard stares down the stool in the shower as he finishes stripping and setting aside his clothes. His lip curls up as the water hits the plastic, making an off-key drumming noise that scratches uncomfortably at his already irritated brain. He puts his hand under the stream to both dampen the sound and test the water, twisting his head to the side to release a satisfying ‘pop’ from his neck. The water’s almost hot enough for him, so he leans against the side of the shower and shakes out his legs as a wave of light-headedness threatens to send him to the floor. Screw the eye, he should have given over to the vast, considering apparently just standing was too high up for his damn head. The hot air now wafting out of the tiny shower wasn’t helping either of course, and his heart felt like it was trying to beat it’s way out of his chest, sending waves of familiar panic-not-panic through his system.

By the time he sits down on the small plastic stool his vision’s starting to go black around the edges and his chest hurts so much it’d send anyone else to the hospital for fear of a heart attack. He wouldn’t faint though, he wasn’t a fainter. That’s part of why no one ever took him seriously. Once he used to wish he would faint, standing in the hot shower for hours, letting his vision swim and swim and swim until his knees got so shaky he had to slide down the wall and collapse among the half-empty shampoo bottles on the floor. He’d sit there until the water ran cold, and that would ease the shaking and his frantic heart. Of course he’d still be left with a headache, cotton clogging up his skull, and the need to spend a few hours passed out in bed.

Gerard shakes the thoughts of previous attacks away and tries to focus on the here and now. He pulls his legs up onto the small square of plastic and crosses them to balance. Instantly some of the light-headedness fades. The hot water beats down on his back. He arches into it and takes a deep breath of the steamy shower air. He feels his sinuses open and heart slow and he can _breathe_ again. He always forgets how tight his chest gets when his heart starts going like that. It loosens in the heat of the shower, as do his shoulders and neck. He stretches his arms upward, hearing a sickening ‘ _crack’_ from his shoulder. He grimaces at the offending joint. Upon gingerly lowering his arms though he realizes it was probably a “good crack” as there’s no accompanying stab of pain telling him something’s slipped out of place. He rolls it back experimentally and is greeted by two more loud pops, one from his shoulder and the other nearby in his neck. Gerard has to fight the urge to roll his eyes at the loud complaining of his body.

“Alright,” he mutters to himself, “Let’s get this over with now.” He cracks his knuckles, to prepare, then his wrists, then his toes for good measure, and sits up straight as he can. He braces his arms against the cheap off-white tile and twists his whole torso. A sound akin to popcorn popping emanates from his spine as he twists first left, then right, then tilts and twists his neck, working one final crack out of his jaw as he does. He absently wonders if Gertrude can hear him as he finishes his little ritual and lets out a contented sigh. 

He decides it doesn’t matter as he lets the hot water soothe his muscles into their new positions against his reset bones and starts washing his hair. His arms tire quickly as the blood drains out of them so he alternates between combing his fingers through the locks that fall over his shoulders and massaging the soap into his scalp. Once he’s finished he leans back into the water and scowls at the stream of greenish-black dye that runs down his chest as he rinses out the shampoo. He really should invest in better quality hair dye, but at this point he has a brand he’s attached to. Even if it fades too fast, and doesn’t really cover as consistently as it should, he doesn’t feel like testing out any others. Maybe some color-protect shampoo would be worth it? Or he could just stop washing his hair everyday, but no, if he does that the sweat just builds up and he feels too greasy to be clean. Ugh. Never any good options. 

Eventually the water runs clear and Gerard rubs his eyes, first the two he uses to see then the ones inked into the skin of his hands. His knuckles _ached_ after a long day of scribbling down notes, and he was sure it wasn’t going to go away any time soon. He cracks them again, only about half of them actually popping this time, and sets about washing the rest of himself. Gerard takes extra care over the places his skin is discolored and sensitive. The patchy, almost-papery scar tissue tends to protest more to the scratching of a loofah or wash-cloth than the heat of the water, and for that he’s thankful. He’s also thankful the tattoos prevented him from losing any more mobility to scarring on his joints, and he’s glad he made the decision to honor the places two bones connected with double tattoos on either side of his elbows, knees, wrists, and ankles. As he reaches behind himself to scrub what he can of his back he thinks maybe he should have been more accurate with just how many connections there are in the shoulder, but by the time he’d done his whole spine he was low on funds. Oh well, too late now; tattooing on the overly sensitive scar tissue would _suck,_ and he didn’t want to give the desolation the satisfaction of hurting him again.

Gerard’s long finished with his hygiene concerns by the time the water starts running lukewarm, so he shuts it off before it gets properly cold. He stretches one last time, relishing the almost sauna-like air. It had been a while since he’d been able to tolerate showering until he’d ran out of water, and the relief he’d gotten from just sitting under the hot water without feeling like a loosely strung doll with a head full of fog had fully changed his mind about the little plastic chair. He leans out past the curtain to grab his towel and tosses it over his head, pressing the fibers into his scalp and down over his dripping hair. Halfway through drying the rest of himself off he takes a moment to just sit and breathe, doing his absolute best not to contemplate where their road leads. He fails.

The Usher Foundation, a pair of statements, and hopefully some way to stop the circus in its tracks. He should probably stop stalling and grab what few hours of shut-eye he can before they have to head out again. He doesn’t know why Gertrude insists on taking buses across this godforsaken country when they could just fly. No, wait. Yes he does, but a chance encounter with a Fairchild on a commercial airline doesn’t seem likely enough to justify the days of cramped and bumpy bus-rides. Damn suspension on those things screwed up his back.

With a sigh he lowers his legs down off the stool and steps out of the shower. The motion shouldn’t send him toppling through the curtain and into the wall, but it does. Pain from his wrist dislocating as he catches himself against the wall is overshadowed by the pain and spinning of his head. Sharp and dizzying and unfamiliar. Was it the heat? Had he not acclimated to it cause of the chair? No, that didn’t seem right. Cotton was clogging the gears that should be turning in his head as he squeezed his eyes shut against the too bright light of the bathroom. It hurt and he wasn’t used to it. His heart was racing but was that from standing or from the pain? He-

“Gerard?” the call of his name and steady knocking on the door pulls him back to himself, “Gerard? Are you alright? I heard a thud.”

“Yeah I-,” he feels himself say before he even fully formulates a response, “I stood up too fast.”

“Well that hardly explains the noise,” Gertrude prompts him through the door. Gerard shakes his head to try clearing it and gingerly lowers himself to the wet floor, taking care not to fall or put any strain on his injured wrist.

“Just- just took a spin and crashed into the wall,” he tells her after a moment, examining his wrist as he does. Yup, definitely dislocated, “Threw out my wrist.” Gertrude makes a small noise of pity before speaking.

“Do you need my help resetting it?” she asks. Gerard grimaces and pulls on his hand, the jolt of pain automatically stops his other hand and sends hiss of air out through his teeth.

“Yeah, yeah, I think so. Let me get covered first,” he grumbles. 

“I’ll get your splint for you while you do,” she informs him using the same practical tone she does when retrieving statements for the researchers in the archives. Gerard takes a deep breath in, and a long breath out before carefully navigating his pained arm to his chest, and struggling into a pair of boxers one handed. He grabs his shirt and throws the towel around his shoulders, knowing Gertrude won’t really care he’s only half-way decent. Slowly this time he rises from the floor, and once he’s confidant in his footing, he opens the door. He takes the few steps between the bathroom and his horrid motel bed at a near run, and clambers awkwardly onto the mattress.

Gertrude is already waiting for him, both hands outstretched, and his wrist brace lying on the nightstand between their beds. Gingerly he lowers his injured wrist into her grip. She wraps her bony fingers around the back of his hand, and anchors her thumbs at the base of his wrist, efficiently trapping his hand.

“Would you like me to pull or do you prefer to?” she asks, her voice as gentle as it ever gets. Gerard takes a deep breath in and lets it out slow before he replies.

“I’ll do it, just keep it as still as you can,” he tells her. She nods in affirmation and grip grows stiffer, almost vice like. “On three,” he says, repeating his deep breath in, slow breath out. 

“One,” Gerard locks his shoulder and adjusts the angle of his elbow for a straight pull.

“Two,” he lets go of the inside of his cheek with his teeth so he doesn’t bite it when it's time.

“Three!” he grits his teeth and pulls. The pain flares up and down his arm as the bones slide and scrape against each other, yanked roughly back into their proper place. He grits his teeth and bites back a scream. If he couldn’t have one nice shower without this shit happening at least he could have his dignity about it. The hard, pressing pain fades into a dull ache and the spasming of muscles pulled in the wrong direction. Gerard lets out a sigh. Two parts pain and one part relief. Gertrude releases one hand to grab his wrist splint, and carefully guides his aching arm into it. She fastens the velcro and gives his hand a gentle pat before releasing it back to him.

Gerard can’t help but chuckle at the gesture. At how tender it is, and how incongruous that tenderness becomes when you know Gertrude. He glances up at her as he stretches out the fingers on his injured arm. She’s already found her way back into bed, once again cracking open her book, and sliding her reading glasses up her nose. He shakes his head and throws his shirt on, an old band shirt, soft and faded from years of use. He lets himself fall onto the scratchy blanket and looks back over at Gertrude. He watches her dark grey eyes flick back and forth across the page, face unchanging as she absorbs whatever information is found there. A thought suddenly pops into his head, and like a good number of his thoughts, tumbles from his lips unexamined and unbidden.

“You got that thing for me didn’t you,” it’s not a question even if he’s phrased it like one, but Gertrude answers anyway.

She shrugs and glances at him over her spectacles, “We can’t have you going and giving yourself a heart attack before your time because you’re too stubborn to take cold showers.”

He wants to laugh at the barbless chiding but something in her eyes when she talks about his time squashes any good humor he might have. Something in the back of his head, near where the highest tattoo on his spinal column sits, tells him she knows exactly when his time is, and he knows he doesn’t want to ask. Instead he just offers up a shrug.

“Helps the joints,” he offers weakly, “and hell knows they need it.” Gertrude doesn’t reply, just stares, that heavy, weighted stare that goes right past whatever definitions the words have, and right to the actual meaning behind them, even if he wasn't privy to that meaning yet. Her gaze tugs at something inside him, or maybe it’s just the awkward silence. He never did well with silence. Any lull felt like a question just begging for an answer, he couldn’t stand to leave irritating little pauses going on for too long. They were like the rats of conversation, and the longer they stood with no meaning in them the bigger the rodent and the more he felt the urge to chase it off with a broom. In this case the broom was more complaining.

“Damn things are useless. Of all the things dear old mum could have left me, it had to be her shitty joints didn’t it?” he whines, not expecting an answer.

“You actually get those from your father,” Gertrude replies anyway, finally lifting her weighted gaze and turning back to her book. The information takes a moment to fully settle in Gerard’s brain, it’s implications and contextualization seeping through his thoughts and memories like syrup through a stack of fluffy pancakes. He’d forgotten Gertrude probably knew his dad. Unless this was just one of the things she sometimes just _knew_ this new tidbit confirms it. He can’t help but wonder if his father cracked his knuckles the same way he did, or if he’d also trained himself to use both hands for writing so he could rest one when the other got tired. Maybe years ago he felt the same ache in his spine as Gerry did. 

Gerard opens his mouth to ask, but the words die on his tongue. He wasn’t sure he could handle any more of the inexplicable soft, saccharine, stinging feeling he got when he thought about his dad maybe grumbling up the same steps he did outside the Institute. Not now at least. Maybe later. Curiosity always did lead him to some odd places, and maybe it’d lead him back towards what he thinks might be nostalgia. If he could even have that for a person he never knew. Oh well, he’s pretty sure he’ll see where that little burning curiosity takes him eventually, if it doesn’t kill him first.

**Author's Note:**

> Please actually go to a doctor if you dislocate your wrist. Our boy Gerry is a bit careless about his health and prefers to handle it on his own, and we all know how that works out for him.


End file.
